Friendship
by Goren R O
Summary: Detective Robert Goren and his therapist consider the meaning of the word "Friendship". Set in between the episodes "Untethered" and "Frame"


**Written in response to the one-word prompt "Friendship"**

**Subject:** Goren, R.O  
Male, 48, b. NYC.  
**ref:** NYPD, MCS  
Assessment - (personal notes only) professional supervision  
Notes refer Sess. # **5**

These notes are part of an annotated transcript derived from tape recordings of our sixth session together.

Goren leans back in the chair and crosses one ankle over his opposite knee. I learnt very early on in our relationship that he is very adept at manipulating his own body language, so I observe but try to make no judgements based on what I see. He looks relaxed. He might very well not be.

He smiles at me. His face changes a lot when he smiles. He doesn't do so very often. Perhaps he feels his smile is the one thing about him that remains genuine, no matter what other little games he is playing. His smile is his Achilles Heel. I don't know. Not yet.

- Shall we discuss your suspension, Detective Goren?

He has previously invited me to call him 'Bobby', but I am not comfortable with that. I sense that encouraging the use of his first name, coupled with the undoubted charm of his smile and the selective use of his eyes are techniques that he has developed specially and uses in his work, and as such I feel resistant to them.

For my own protection.

- Isn't that what we are always discussing, _Doctor_?

I treat his question as rhetorical and don't bother answering. Eventually he realises he has to keep on talking.

- "Suspension" - the perfect name for it. Suspension. Suspend. Suspended.

He turns the word over and over in his mouth, conjugating, letting his tongue play with accenting the different syllables. Distraction technique. Mentally, I put my feet up and break open the milk and cookies. This could take a while.

- Suspended is a good word. I feel sometimes literally as though I'm being hung up from a ceiling by ropes, or chains, or something equally unbreakable, from which I've no hope of escape. Saw a film the other night about a serial killer who could only achieve sexual gratification when suspended above the body of his victim by chains looped through lots of little metal hoops in his back.

Goren's lip curls very slightly in disgust. I'm surprised. When he talks about his 'real life' cases he shows no such emotion.

- I'm suspended here, helpless.

- You feel you have no control over what is happening to you?

- Nope. Struggling with it only seems to increase my sensation of ... it's like I'm tied up. There was a case ... a boy who strangled women in a noose attached to their own ankles. I feel like that - being slowly throttled by my own movements, my own exhaustion.

- Your work obviously has quite an impact on your mental imagery.

- I've seen a lot of death, yes.

- What else do you feel about being suspended?

- Besides the effects of oxygen deprivation?

He grins, wryly. It's not a smile, per se. But he continues.

- There's also a strong sense of ... bereavement.

- You're still mourning your mother. That process can take years.

- No, it isn't that. I have this sense that there are great chunks missing. Out of me.

- Can you identify what is missing?

- Work.

- That seems to be a given. But what, exactly, are you missing about it?

- I miss the routine of it. Travelling there, getting hold of coffee and bakery, signing in, clipping on my ID badge, riding the elevator, picking up my messages. Stupid inconsequential little things that under normal circumstances I wouldn't pay any attention to.

- Habits?

- Habits. That's it. I realise now that those activities were habitual.

- And the interruption of habit is one of the first and biggest triggers to depression.

It's not a question on my part, because I am well aware that he already know this. I'm merely stating the obvious. I do that rather a lot with this subject. He has an extraordinary degree of knowledge. And he is, apparently, almost entirely self-taught. A classic autodidact.

Sudden cessation of habitual activity. Sensation of loss. Loss of control. Depression.

Goren looks irritated. His left leg judders up and down spastically, threatening to dislodge his other ankle.

- I also miss the way there was _no_ routine to it. My span of attention's pretty short, unless I'm really into something, so this job suits me perfectly; there's always something else needing to be done, or researched, or looked at, or thought about, or travelled to, or debriefed from.

He waves his hands expressively as he speaks the words above. His legs come uncrossed and he sits forward in the easy chair. The energy that has been building inside him is being loosed. It's like watching knitting unravel, line by line. His gaze runs around the room as though chasing after the invisible images thrown by his fingers. His voice takes on more timbres and tones. I feel like I am able to see his eyes for the first time this session.

Goren seems considerably more animated when he is talking about his work.

- I need to be on the move - physically and mentally. A sedentary job would kill me in a week.

He hardly needs to tell me THAT. I remark on the radical change in his posture and he sits still again. He looks self-conscious.

- What else do you miss?

- I miss the money, certainly. I've had to renegotiate everything with my credit union, and start economising in a way that I haven't done since I was at College.

- Is money very important to you?

There's a long pause.

- You need money to live in this city. I used to love money. When I was younger I loved shopping - for new clothes, old books, music, stuff for my car, gadgets, food. But now the whole idea of spending money on myself, even if I could, now just seems trivial. Unimportant.

I note a slightly wistful cast to his features. This can sometimes mean that we are on the verge of something. Speaking about his job seems to have loosened him up. He is very close to something important, like perhaps admitting at a fundamental level that his priorities are beginning to change. With very intelligent (but very confused) subjects, it can be talking about something _else_ that brings them to the heart of their problem, via the back door.

I recap for him.

- So. You miss the routine, the stimulation, and the money.

- Yes.

- And ... that's all?

There is a long, considered pause.

- The thing that strikes me the most ... is how much I miss Eames.

- Your partner. Have you spoken to her?

- No.

- Why not?

His gaze falls abruptly to the expensive Persian rug on the floor. For a moment I fear he is about to lose his thread; strike up a casual conversation about the provenance and weave of the carpet, but instead he simply winds his fingers endlessly together, alternately pulling on each of his thumbs. He's weaving a carpet of his own, internally.

He has in previous sessions feigned ADD. In our first meeting he appeared to find it virtually impossible to sit still - that's after I did manage to get him to sit at all. My bookcase was of particular interest for him, as was the view from the window and the family photographs on my desk.

Whilst Goren may be occasionally hyperactive, I do not see any problem with this man's ability to concentrate, even if he is impaired at the moment by his depressive state. His high level of intelligence requires constant stimulation, and he will on occasions create his own 'situations', if nothing else is forthcoming. Like a child playing up in an effort to gain attention.

He speaks. More quietly now.

- I haven't spoken to her because I'm ashamed. Of my situation.

- And why is that preventing you from speaking to your partner? You've been separated from her before?

I glance at my notes for reassurance.

- when she had a baby?

- Yes, but that was different. Her being pregnant, having a child, those are things with a finite span. I knew when I would see her again, and the reasons behind our separation. They were good reasons.

- Worthy reasons?

- Yes, worthy. She was busy doing something incredibly selfless and worthy and, above all, useful. And ... finite.

- In contrast to how you see your own situation?

- Yes.

- Perhaps you are punishing yourself by not allowing yourself to contact Detective Eames.

Goren is silent for so long that I fear I have offended him, and he is battling the desire to get up and walk out, or punch me, or something. He is a big and powerful looking man. I recognise this hint of fear in me, waiting in the wings of my mind's stage. Quite often with Goren, I am assailed by feelings like these. I am aware of them, and I can dismiss them easily enough, but they do still come into my brain.

Finally he speaks. His words are like footfalls in a darkened room - hesitant, uncertain.

- I ... am punishing myself by not talking to her. That almost makes sense. In many ways this is the worst part. Worse than the boredom and the change of routine, worse than the money. I'm ashamed of having been suspended, and I can't speak to Eames about it.

- And her opinion on the subject is important to you?

- Yes.

- But you are ... what - scared? To find out her opinion?

- I think I know her well enough to be able to guess her opinion.

There is another long silence, not un-companionable, because Goren has seen me enough times now to know that silence is as important as speech, sometimes.

- Can you explain why her opinion is important to you in this way?

- Why are you asking me?

- Because I see it as significant. It's in contrast to how you view the opinions of some of the other people you work with.

- Don't you mean ALL of the other people I work with?

- Well, you said it, Detective.

This time he actually laughs at the irony of it. I wonder if he would laugh, were I a man. A _male_ authority figure. The kind whose opinions he takes a dim view of. I think: I have to veer away at this point. I try a change of tack.

- Have you ever lived with a woman besides your mother?

- Yes, once. But only for six or seven weeks.

- What happened?

- We broke up.

- Yes. But why?

Goren's face tries on a variety of different expressions for size and comfort and eventually settles on 'contrite'.

- I cheated on her. But in retrospect I think I was doing it to her before she has the chance to do the same thing to me.

- Is that what you expect all women to do? To be inconstant?

- Yes. Starting with my mother, and moving on from there. They never stay very long.

I see my chance to get back to the question about Eames.

- Alexandra Eames must be quite an anomaly in your universe then.

Goren stares at me uncomprehendingly, but his expression of confusion is not aimed at me or what I have said. He's looking in my direction, but not really seeing me. I realise that he is looking inward, and is unable to understand why it is he _cannot understand_. I press on.

- How exactly do you think of her, Detective? What is it about Detective Eames that is significant for you?

His face relaxes suddenly. He clears his throat, scratches the back of his neck. I will not let him smoke in the consulting rooms, but he looks like he_ really_ would appreciate a cigarette break right now. He looks at me and for a swift moment I think I can see a hint of pleading on his features - his 'do I have to do this?' expression.

It cuts no shrift with me. I've seen that expression on him many times.

- You sound like my brother. Eames ... Eames is my work colleague, my partner. Technically she's my boss, too.

I am greatly struck by the fact that, after seven years, he wouldn't venture to call her '_friend'; I_ almost remark on this but pull myself up short when I see the expression in his eyes. Again, he is looking at me directly. But again, he does not SEE me.

Goren stares. He has no other answers.

Not yet.


End file.
